Dark Wings
by Pandorica 11
Summary: His crime? Unimportant. The sentence for his sins? Eternity on Earth. A fallen angel is cast down from Heaven, and through the eons, it is his punishment to live as a human, Doctor Hannibal Lector. Well educated, impeccably dressed, with the most sophisticated of palates, Hannibal stalks the earth, mostly hunting for sustenance, but on occasion, also companionship.


His wings were invisible, but cast a great shadow wherever he travelled. He walked through the world with them spread over his shoulders and back, shedding dark feathers like ink from a broken nub across a clean sheet of creamy white paper. It amazed him that the very appendages which had carried him through the celestial places in bygone eras were now a testament to the darkness of himself, the darkness of the fallen angel.

He had forgotten his name, the one gifted him at the beginning, outside of time and space. That blank space in his memory irked him, driving him to choose another, something of his own crafting. That urge to create was irritating, like a painful itch to be scratched, but he was hesitant to do so, to mimic the creation of the Creator. Hannibal Lector was a sufficient title for the surface of the earth, but he dreamed of ascending to the heavens and reclaiming his true name.

Time, space, matter and flesh were creations, and things created would eventually be destroyed, this was one of the unbreakable facts of the universe. His prison was a body of flesh, his sentence for his crimes was the endless slog through the pungent mire which is time. Thousands on thousands of years on earth had clouded his memory of heaven, but the nature of his transgressions had been branded onto his memory. Lucifer had fallen because of pride, a misplaced belief in equality, even superiority, with the One. Truth be told, pride was the root of every sin, but pride came in as many favors as souls did. Before the fall, Hannibal had been looked into creation and seen humanity, seen it in every variation. Humans came in favors, mixtures of weakness, strength, hatred, love, rudeness, compassion, and countless other traits, which altered a human being, based on subtle subtle nuances of quantity, and of quality. In fact, the purer the emotion, the superior quality as an ingredient, Hannibal decided while on earth. These qualities were beautiful, and the angel which Hannibal used to be was a great admirer of the One's beautiful creation. Recognition of this beauty turned into desire. He wanted to possess the exquisite spectrum of character which the creator had gifted these humble, simple, stupid beings. It was like giving an ape a set of quality oil paints, an utter waste. Why hadn't the nuances of character been given to the Angels, who would appreciate them to their fullest extent? Admiration soured like milk, into bitter resentment at the One.

His judgement was clear, and his sentence was given. His punishment was enacted, and an angel fell from the heavens, burning like a flaming comet, earthwards. The first moment was sheer bliss, the angel felt utter pleasure in the speed, racing past star systems and galaxies, nebulous clouds of gas, and dying suns, falling faster and faster.

And then the moment passed.

He wished to experience it once again, which was impossible, as he had entered into a new realm, one bound by a linear flow of time. He had lost that moment forever. That was pure tragedy. The pain of his punishment was suddenly felt in full, and the rest of the fall echoed with his screams of agony.

Eons on earth will change a person, but Hannibal Lector was a superior being, and even as memories faded, his desire remained.

He landed on earth in a flesh prison, but in all its all vulnerabilities, he recognized a certain amount of potential in the body which had been granted him. Hannibal sharpened and honed it, forging it into a suit of armor. No, he crafted it into the sharpest of weapons, to begin the hunt.

He passed all over the earth, sampling the people like the world was a buffet, and he the guest of honor. He developed a taste for certain character traits.

It was a surprise to him, but he cultivated a taste for the flesh as well. There was something remarkable about the pairing of a body and soul, one always seemed to complement the other in a totally unpredictable way to Hannibal Lector.

The perfect mixture of selfishness, personal insecurity, and immature optimism formed a delicious cocktail to accompany the tender, pink meat, especially if the latter was cooked with a cranberry marinade.

Corruption and a penchant for smugness and rudeness to anyone below a certain level of socioeconomic status paired rather well with a steak, hickory-smoke cured, and grilled to utter perfection.

Arrogance, apathy and a hint of misplaced, blind loyalty towards some particular political agenda balanced out a cast-iron pan-fried fillet with thyme and lemon.

And so forth.

Hannibal spent as many eons honing his tastebuds as he had honing his physique, and then he honed his mind by learning as much as possible about his prison as was readily available through mortal educational means. He collected doctorates like a child might collect pebbles, though he kept a relatively low radar in both the academic and social world, as suited his needs, depending on the circumstances. He was content with passing through people's lives, leaving nothing but a faint recollection of Hannibal Lector as a well-educated, impeccably dressed Lithuanian foreigner. Most of Mankind could not see his deeds, nor the imposing sharp-feathered appendages which topped his shoulders, but passerby's occasionally shivered under the shadow which the wings cast, unaware of the coldness passing through them.

Perhaps this was why hannibal was intrinsically drawn to the people which did noticed the extra-human qualities about him. Most human beings were painfully ignorant and blind, but a few could pick him out of a crowd, even if they themselves couldn't pinpoint why, and it garnered a certain respect from him.

Throughout the eons when Hannibal dwelt on earth, only a handful of people were gifted with the true vision. The scales blinding their own eyes would fall away, to let them experience the unholy ecstasy of seeing him for what he truly was. It was a gift to see such painful beauty, but also a curse.

He was a doctor, formally, but his motivations were not derived from the milk of human kindness. He prodded and poked at the human brain, fascinated by its eccentricities. He found the mind to be mailable, like soft clay, ready to be shaped, refined in fire, and finally, broken.

Sometimes roamed like a nomad, visiting Brazil, Tibet, Siberia, wherever his whims lead him. Other times, he remained still for years, integrating into communities, before breaking them into pieces. He wondered at the relationships which people had with each other. He wondered at love, at companionship, at family.

Once upon a time, Hannibal Lector dreamed a little dream of a family. He collected them: a doctor like himself, intelligent, engaging, but feminine, nurturing, like a mother. A broken girl, clever, but sad, abandoned and disillusioned. An empathetic - too empathetic - criminal profiler, with a beautiful, painful mind. Hannibal himself assumed the roll of father. He wanted to play the game, have that familial community, to bring all three away from the harsh cruelty of the world to a haven of his own creation. But people have free will, and his family was a puzzle with pieces too bent out of shape to fit together as Hannibal would like. So, he molded their minds, burnt them in the hottest of fire, and just before something beautiful could be created, he shattered the pieces. The teacup had broken.

The criminal profiler, Will Graham, had ruined it, truth be told. Hannibal has forced to break the teacup, because Will Graham would not bend to his will. Hannibal looked at his own reflection in Will's eyes, and saw something too close to the truth for comfort - a stag, coated with dark, sharp feathers, and massive antlers, sharp enough to pierce the heart. If Will had accepted the family, the fairytale, as easily as the doctor and the girl, perhaps they all could have escaped together to the haven. Hannibal, in seeing himself through Will's perspective, finally knew it was never to be. The teacup could not be put back together.

Eons slipped by like water down a river at dawn. Hannibal Lector never forgot his fairytale ending that never was.

Author's note:

Thank you for reading! This particular short is something that was floating in my head, and with the first couple episodes of season three out, it seemed like a perfect time to get the story down and read. If you enjoyed it, please leave a review. Or even if you didn't, reviews are helpful in general. Especially if you'd like more. This was originally a one shot, but I'm open to writing more based on the reception!

hugs,

pandorica


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